From exile, you always
wake up with a heavy heart
even when the news hits
you right with its promise
of murder and desire
of hope and language
that invade the throat
and the aroma of Colombian
coffee newly brewed
to perk you up
to make you welcome
the smile of the early hours
the smile of the young sun.
There is much to dream of
much to dream on and on
from here in these parts
as the rains of fall
pour down on you
like a purge cleansing your
soul lost to the foreign evening
you do not recognize
for the strangeness
of their scenes
and scent,
expelling the sorrow
residing in your chest
as you remind yourself
of the good days
coming on ahead
breaking their silences
to you in song
and sweetness.
You go through
the grind of labor,
eight hours or more
that extend to the night
to patch up the blank spaces
of news you put together
for the week
to wake the heavy hearts
of exiles,
those who do not know
any longer where to go
any longer where to run
they do not know
where they come from
what climate brought them here
what seasons brought them
to grieve over distances
bridging the lost time
marking their being away.
You wake up
with a heavy heart
from exile and still
you hear the ugly news
from home,
the tall tales
about not learning
the moral in singing
the morning song.
A.S. Agcaoili
Carson, CA
Nov. 12, 2005
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